


Winter Song

by amanitamuscaria



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drunken Flirting, M/M, Secret Snarry Swap 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-02 06:31:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16781497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amanitamuscaria/pseuds/amanitamuscaria
Summary: "... I don't think we can fit eight thirty-foot trees in here."





	Winter Song

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to all who keep the Snarry going.
> 
> Prompt 4 from lilyseyes: Harry has helped nurse Severus back to health after Nagini's bite and is determined to spend the holidays with him, but Harry realizes he knows nothing of Yule and little about Christmas traditions.

Harry can't settle to anything. 

Ron says, "Want to go and see about becoming Aurors?" 

"No, I don't feel I can do that yet. You go on, I'll probably join you later." 

Ron rubs the back of his neck, says, "Well, I was thinking about maybe joining George in the shop for a bit. He could use the help, and it just seems like a good thing to do, making people laugh, after all this..." 

"Sure. That sounds like a great idea. You're right about cheering people up, I think everyone needs a bit of cheering." 

  
  


Hermione says, "Take your time, let everything settle down first. You need a bit of time to think about things, about what you want to do." 

But she, of course, has got her plans all sorted. 

"I'm sitting my NEWTS in November, and I've got a trial month with the Unspeakables lined up. But I'm really not sure - it's research, but it seems so - I don't know, unfocused and ambiguous?" 

  
  


Harry meets his friends occasionally in the Leaky Cauldron or in Hogsmeade, drops by to see Ron and George, has a quick lunch with Hermione. He is restless; as soon as he arrives, he wants to be elsewhere. Half an hour seems to be his limit for social interaction. He makes his excuses, usually mentioning Hogwarts. Most people assume he's going to see Ginny. Ron and Hermione know, however, that he's broken up with her. 

  
  


What he really likes is sitting with Snape. He doesn't have to answer questions. He can talk if he wants, and does sometimes. Mainly, he sits there, looking at the neck swathed in bandages and healing poultices, watching the shallow breaths raise and lower the thin chest, and trying to figure out the face. His mother was friends with this man. He thinks about how awkward Snape looked in the memories, all long gawky limbs and uncoordinated twitches and sudden movements, and then, comparing the way Snape as an adult could move with purpose, or so stealthily no one noticed. 

So many contradictions, including how the face he'd once loathed now seemed dignified, even handsome in an odd way. 

  
  


*************** 

  
  


Gently, slowly, as though he is surfacing in a lake, or, no, in the bath that is his indulgence in his chambers, he becomes aware of voices. Well, that's odd. The voices are Pomfrey and Potter. So the reflexive tension drifts out of him and he relaxes back into the welcoming warmth. No need to force himself to alertness, to defend himself. His mind drifts to eyes, red eyes, mad eyes, slit eyes, green eyes, then off to purebloods, half-bloods, mud- no, not that word, never that word, muggles, which he can say with as much venom as the others say the other word, when necessary. Pomfrey has kind blue eyes, the Dark Lord has angry red eyes, Potter has- Lily has, had - does he need to wake? His neck hurts. Potter's voice again. Going on and on, like a lullaby. Potter singing a - no, telling him a bedtime story. How strange. Green eyes - he'd tried, when he was much younger, to find someone, anyone, with those eyes, with the soft hands, soft voice, before he'd understood that it wasn't the eyes, the voice or the hands, but the one person, the one dead person that he longed for, that couldn't be replaced. There had been a boy, a long time ago in Manchester, but he had never had that kindness in his eyes, he'd never had that sorrow in the eyes that looked at him as he drifted away- dead, then? All dead? But then -

  
  


*************** 

  
  


He is looking down into the face, tracing a particular crease he can't decide whether it's a scar or a wrinkle, when Snape's eyes open. 

Harry is suddenly staring into dark eyes filled with hope and eagerness, when the eyes flick up and abruptly, the shields slam down and he is looking into the blank dark eyes he is familiar with. The man is about to curse him, when Harry bethinks himself and puts his hand up to press the thin lips together. 

"No - don't speak. Your vocal cords are still damaged. Madam Pomfrey is working on fixing them. I'll go get her. It's all right." 

  
  


Poppy bustles in, "Ah, you've finally decided to rejoin us. Good. Harry's told you about the damage? Don't try to talk yet, I need to run some tests now you're awake. Let me get some things together. I'll let Harry fill you in on news meanwhile." 

Snape sends Harry a suspicious look, then raises an enquiring eyebrow. 

"Well, OK. You're in the Hospital Wing -" 

Snape's face expresses his contempt at this 'news'. 

"Very few people know you're here. Voldemort's gone for good. Kingsley's Interim Minister, but there are others trying to oust him. We're trying to get a full pardon through for you before we let anyone else know you're still alive, he thought it would be easier that way." 

Snape snorts, and Harry thinks he sees a glint of amusement. 

"Yes, well, it's October. You've been unconscious for months, a lot of the trials have already taken place." 

In response to Snape's look, Harry recites the names and sentences of the ones he knows. 

Pomfrey comes back with armfuls of paraphernalia, and Harry slips out while she's setting up. At the door, he glances back to meet Snape's eyes. 

  
  


"We'll have to find you somewhere else, there are just too many cases of Frenzy Flu at the moment," Madam Pomfrey says. 

"You could come and stay with me." Harry sees Snape draw back involuntarily. "No, not at Grimmauld, I'm renting a place. In Muggle London. There's space, and it's quiet." 

Snape looks through narrowed eyes at him, then turns to Pomfrey. 

"No, your old rooms are too damaged, still. Harry's suggestion does sound like the best solution." 

  
  


So Snape is bundled up in coats and scarves, and forced to endure the indignity of a wheelchair. 

"I don't use magic in the flat if I can help it, I'm staying out of the Ministry's way as much as I can," Harry explains. 

They Apparate to Ron and Hermione's, just down the road, and Harry exits their homely flat, takes Snape down in the lift and along a busy street. 

Harry's flat is an odd mixture of camping-out and homeliness. There's a large wooden table that takes up almost all the space in the kitchen, so Harry has to sidle along it to put the kettle on. The sitting room has a flowery chintz-covered sofa and a glass-and-steel-tubing table, and some boxes stacked in the corner. Snape is propelled into a bedroom with a narrow bed and more boxes, with a lamp sitting atop them. 

  
  


Harry wakes up after an hour or two and goes to sit on the sofa, reading or just sitting, as he usually does. This time, however, Snape is already sitting there. 

"Oh - sorry, I couldn't sleep. I'll - " 

But Snape waves a hand, and Harry joins him. 

"You too, huh?" 

Snape nods, with a grimace. 

  
  


Snape stares at the strands of tinsel Harry has hung on the plant which is now more than half-dead. 

"Too much?" Harry steps back to judge the effect, and shakes his head. 

"I don't really know how to do this," he says, trying another couple of strands. "I got some garlands, too. Would you help me with them, please?" 

Severus grimaces, shakes his head. 

Harry looks down at the tinsel he's teasing out. "OK, I just thought it might make the place look a little cheerier, for Christmas." 

"I was not refusing to help you, I was merely -" Snape grinds out in that gravelly voice that makes Harry go weak at the knees. 

"You really do not know - " Snape stops himself. "May I make a few changes to the room? You may find it easier to perform your Yuletide transformation afterwards." 

"Sure, go ahead. It's never looked right." 

Snape performs a few swift masking spells, wordless and so fast Harry can't follow them, though he knows what they are. 

Then, he starts with the plant, reviving it and providing it with a much bigger pot. 

Harry's jaw drops as Snape works, transforming his sitting room into something that looks like a cross between a gentlemen's club and a library, all browns and dark golds. 

"What - how - how did you do that?" 

"If it's not to your taste -" Snape growls, but Harry stutters, "No! It's brilliant! Can you do the kitchen, too?" 

"I wanted it to look like home, like a home, but everything I did just made it look weird. Weirder." 

Snape is looking at him, the expressionless look on his face again. 

"I can see the Weasley influence," waving towards the kitchen table, "but what was that steel and glass thing?" 

"It looked good in the shop window." 

"Why did you not take your inspiration from Hogwarts, or your home?" 

Harry flinches his eyes aside, says, "The kitchen, then. How about some yellow?" 

Snape studies him, says, "I don't believe Petunia's kitchen was ever yellow, nor that she would have modern furniture." 

"No. And I don't think decorating this place in bare wood and spiderwebs would be the effect I was looking for." 

"So, the cupboard under the stairs was true?" 

"Nor do I want to have stacks of broken toys everywhere." 

"Quite. I was not suggesting you recreate your early scenes of misery." 

"Well, I didn't think much of the decor in the rest of the house, either." 

"Hogwarts?" 

Harry turns his head away. "I can't get the battle out of my head. It doesn't seem much like home anymore." 

  
  


They are sitting together, each having woken from nightmares, drinking tea at four in the morning. 

"So what do we do now? I've served my purpose in life, I've killed Voldemort -" Harry ignores the sharply indrawn breath, "I have nothing to focus on." 

"Focus on living." Snape says wearily. "I, too, feel I've outlived my usefulness. You are still alive, which was the final task Dumbledore set me, As you say, the Dark Lord is dead. I have no purpose, no reason to have survived. And yet, here I am." 

"Do you know what you're going to do? Will you go back to teaching?" 

Snape looks down his nose at Harry. "Did anything in your years at Hogwarts indicate that I enjoyed teaching?" 

Harry snorts, "Well, it's just that everyone survived your classes, and no one had any permanent injuries. Most people got pretty good marks on their OWLs and NEWTS, too." 

"Yes. I suppose you will not find it surprising that terror produces excellent motivation." 

"Yeah. But the annotations in your book - now that was really worthwhile." He ignores the dark look Snape sends him. 

"I'm sorry, by the way, that it was burnt in the Room of Requirement." 

Snape sighs. "You didn't notice that some of the annotations were in a different hand?" 

"No." After a moment's thought, Harry groans. "Your mum. It was her book, wasn't it. Now I feel twice as bad." 

"Yes. No matter, the information is stored," he taps his head, "In here." 

  
  


When he considers it in his room afterwards, the idea isn't bad, it's not bad at all. He finds parchment and a pen, and sits down at the desk to compose an outline. 

  
  


In the morning, the sitting room is thankfully tinsel-less. Harry is sitting, gazing about, the traces of a sleepless night visible on his face. He swivels to face Snape. 

"Maybe, you could decorate? You seem to be good at it. Where did you learn?" 

"How did a lad from the backstreets of Cokeworth learn about the finer things in life? I had instruction." Snape goes from a nasal Northern accent to his usual speech, if gravelly and harsh. 

"Malfoy?" 

"Amongst others. I find libraries to be particularly restful places." 

"I guess that wouldn't work so well for a kitchen." 

"Why don't you try your own style in the kitchen?" 

Harry looks down, fiddling with a cushion, flushing a little. "I could, I suppose..." 

Snape has a sudden image of the young man standing on a chair, draping tinsel on the ceiling light. 

"You don't use your wand anymore, do you." 

"No." 

"This is why you live in Muggle London, this is why you avoid seeing anyone." 

"I just can't, ok?" 

"No. It is not ok. Is there a reason, or is it simply a distaste for the magical world?" 

He's irritated at himself, not to have realised. When he looks at the youth closely, he's even more exasperated at himself. 

He's seen the dark smudges beneath the boy's - youth's - young man's eyes for days, the heaviness of demeanour, and why is it that he cannot define the youth - no, looking so haggard now, he must be called a young man. 

"I just can't, that's all. It killed Voldemort. I killed Voldemort." 

"From the accounts I heard, it was the Dark Lord's own curse that rebounded on him. Do you say different?" 

"Well, no. But I was the cause of his death, as well as Crabbe's." 

"Who, again as I understand, cast Fiendfyre, and died thereof." 

"Why are you being nice to me?" 

"Because I now have no reason not to be." 

But Snape ponders this. To be accepted so easily into Potter's home, with no questions asked, no surety demanded. He does know Potter is not a fool, but he is lucky. Dumbledore had offered him sanctuary, but always at a price. What is the price here, he wonders. He wonders, too, at his inability to categorise Potter. No longer a boy, for sure, he teeters on the cusp of full adulthood. The time he has spent running from Death Eaters has pushed him beyond his years. The narrow face, always thin, now has a firm jawline blued with stubble. The green eyes, once so like Lily's, are now undoubtedly masculine, narrowed, and Snape realises he has been staring at Potter for much too long, and Potter has been staring back. 

"I am at a loss. Even foolish Gryffindors usually require some recompense for favours granted. What, then, will be the price of my shelter?" 

The jaw clenches for a moment, but Potter has learnt self-control somewhere in the past year and a half. He merely replies, "Your forgiveness for doubting you, for trying to undermine your work would be a start." 

"You were meant to doubt me, to not trust me." 

"Oh, yes, Dumbledore's plots." 

"He kept you safe, you would not be here but for him." 

"He kept you safe, too, but at what cost?" 

What cost, indeed. He thinks of the years he's spent living on his nerves, every moment wondering if he's been discovered, if he will face the wrath of Death Eaters, Dumbledore's Army, the Ministry, or simply fall from a stray curse. He shakes his head - he's never had the time, until now, to think about this, and it's not a good thing to dwell on. 

  
  


There is little respite. He falls asleep, only to wake gasping, drenched in sweat a few hours later. He would have to virtually empty his head to have any rest from the nightmares. How did his life turn into this black thing that lurks in the dark corners of his nighttime room? He gets up, sits at the desk and writes. 

Sometimes he hears the young man moving in the other room in the middle of the night. He does not intrude - what comfort could he offer, even if he would? 

In their waking hours, he does badger Potter to take up his wand again. Sometimes, he performs whimsical schoolboy spells, turning Potter's hair pink, giving him elephant ears. Other times, when he's feeling less generous, there are stinging hexes and incarcerous, tripping jinxes as Potter is carrying cups and dishes. He is interested to find Potter seems to intuit when he casts a playful spell, and allows it through. Other spells are blocked or side-stepped with unconscious ease, and he realises Potter is no longer clumsy, but has grown into his body and moves with grace. Snape starts to cast to explore this phenomenon, and finds himself impressed by a pirouette and slide to evade a body-bind he's cast as Potter comes out of the kitchen with their suppers. 

Potter gives him a curious look and says, "It wouldn't hurt you to smile now and again, you know." 

Has he been so close to losing control of his expression? 

"I think you are mistaking me for someone who likes you." 

"Am I?" 

But Potter turns and sets the plates down. 

"If you don't like my cooking, you're welcome to take a turn," he comments mildly. 

Snape raises an eyebrow, fights down a smirk, says, "Fine. Supper tomorrow." 

There's a warmth to Potter that from anyone else would have Snape snarling and sniping. Somehow, it doesn't feel like an attack from the young man, though. 

"I am making no disparagement of your skills, however, merely taking my turn." 

"I shall look forward to it." 

Snape allows a small smile to be hidden behind his bread. Potter's cooking has been perfectly acceptable, if plain. 

"Shall I order anything particular? Do you need any ingredients?" 

"I don't believe so," he says with a small private smile. 

  
  


The series of courses he brings out the next evening is impressive, and Potter looks puzzled for a while, but then, he inhales deeply and smiles at Snape. 

"It's the Hogwarts serving plates that give it away," he says apologetically. 

"Ah. Of course." 

"I'm certainly not complaining, but how...?" 

"Both the castle and the house-elves will accept the instructions of a Headmaster, whether acting or not, as long as the order does not interfere with the running of the school." 

"Well, I won't mind if we have more meals like this. I only learnt basic cooking." 

"This is from your relatives?" 

Potter nods, expressionless. 

"They did not send you out into the world unprepared, then." 

He is given a sharp look, but then Potter seems to reflect. 

"Hm. It wasn't enjoyable at the time, but I suppose I do have better survival skills than Dudley." 

Snape is surprised into a snorting laugh, and Potter looks at him, wryly amused. 

He's rather enjoying this mature, calm young man, and they end the evening sitting companionably reading. Snape is encouraged to see the book Potter is absorbed in is on Wandcraft. 

  
  


The conclusion he reaches seems highly unlikely, but it's the only thing that fits the evidence. Acting upon his suspicions is another matter. It's been a very long time since he's exposed himself to anything like this, anything where he might be laughed at, scorned, lose this very comfortable existence. He's gotten used to it, he admits to himself. The book is nowhere yet ready, and he hasn't tried approaching anyone about it. A first step towards publishing might be to approach Minerva; if the Headmistress thought it a good plan, that would give him some confidence to move with it. However, it still does not solve his dilemma. He finds the bottle of Firewhiskey he's acquired in case of a Christmas invasion of Weasleys and other ex-pupils, and has a glass. 

"Supper's on the table!" 

He hears Potter call up, stands, and realises he's drunk rather more of the bottle than he had intended. 

  
  


During the meal, Potter is glancing up at him rather more than usual, and it irritates him. 

He's accepted this odd cohabitation, as he hasn't had other options, but really, either Potter is playing with him, or is enticing him. 

As Potter puts a plate of rice pudding down, he makes a lunge for the young man, but Potter wriggles free. 

"If you're not interested, stop teasing me," he grumbles. This will be really embarrassing tomorrow, he thinks, but tonight, he just doesn't care. He's fed up with all the dancing around. 

Potter looks at him, head to one side. "Go to bed, we'll talk about it tomorrow," he says. 

"I may have gone tomorrow," he mutters. 

"Just sleep. Nothing is going to happen tonight. We'll talk tomorrow." 

And Snape finds himself in bed, drifting off. 

His head is bad in the morning, and as he remembers more about the previous evening, he groans, gets himself up, gets ready to pack. When he gets out into the sitting room, Potter is there. 

"I owe you an apology for my behaviour," he mutters. 

"Accepted. Tea?" 

"What, is that it?" 

"Well, no, we still have to talk." 

"What about? I got drunk and behaved badly. I'll go." 

"Go? Go where?" 

"Anywhere. You surely don't want me to stay?" 

"Yes. I want you to stay. I don't want you to jump on me when you're drunk; when you're sober, however, that's another matter." 

He blinks, drinks the poured tea, has another cup and some hangover potion. Potter is sitting next to him, watching him calmly. 

"You want me to stay." 

"Yes." 

"Why?" 

Potter blushes and stares down at his hands. "I think I want what you want, I want to be with you. But, I've never done this before." He looks up, challenging, pure Gryffindor, and says, "I never had the time, you know? If that's like a deal-breaker, well, I understand." 

He stares at Potter, confused, appalled that this boy should think that he is the right one to ask for this. 

Potter's face closes off and he says, "Alright, I thought that maybe -" 

"No! No, I'm not rejecting you. It's just - you cannot really think that I would be a good choice?" 

"Why not?" 

"Because I am old and worn and utterly unsuitable. You should look for someone young, someone who will lift you, whom you can go out with." 

"But I don't want someone young, who can't understand what I've been through, what you've been through. I'm not comfortable with people my own age. I have nothing to say to them, I can't even talk to Ron or Hermione any more, not about important stuff. You're it, unless you want to doom me to a solitary life." 

Potter scoots closer, and the temptation is hard to resist, but he tries again. 

"You have no idea how inappropriate this is, you will be shunned and despised, and I will be reviled." 

An odd sort of smile flickers on Potter's face; the heat in his eyes is unmistakable. 

"Hmmm. Perhaps they won't bother with me, then. That sounds good to me. Outcasts together?" 

"You want to play with danger." 

The smile is still there, and Potter says, "Perhaps I've gotten used to it?" 

"Perhaps you ought to think about getting unaccustomed to danger. It is not the way to live your life." 

Potter looks directly at him. 

"Perhaps you could tell me how?" 

"I am not the person you should be modelling yourself on. You can see for yourself what a success I've made of my life." 

"I see someone who is smart, clever, who's kept going because of something he's believed in at huge cost to himself. I see someone who's unbelievably courageous, but who doesn't care that no one knows it. Someone who's made something of himself, by his own hard work." 

Snape shakes his head, pours another cup of tea, stands. 

"I can't deal with this now. You truly do not want me to go?" 

"Yes. Stay. Please?" 

  
  


Sitting on his bed, he wonders how life got this strange. If he can keep his temper under control, maybe by limiting the amount of time he spends with Potter, perhaps this would be an ideal solution. He will get his book done, establish some way of supporting himself, it'll give him a useful breathing space. It already has - he couldn't have gone to Spinner's End, but he will have to check if it's safe, or even still there, sometime soon. In the meanwhile, it seems his teaching duties are not yet done. Potter is practically begging him, and what a tempting thought that is. A stirring he has not allowed himself for a very long time overcomes him, and he indulges himself - another episode like last night's might not be tolerated by Potter. He must move carefully, if the young man is, indeed, so innocent. So be it - this will answer to a number of his needs. 

  
  


Potter is reading again when he comes out, having put a good three hours into his book, and he makes himself pleasant. 

"Wand lore is something that attracts you?" 

"I'm interested in the interactions between wood and core, wand-maker and wielder." 

They have an instructive conversation - how strange, he thinks, to be able to have such a discussion, with Potter, of all people - and the young man appears to have done quite a bit of reading and research. 

"You could do worse than look at becoming a wand-maker." 

"I was thinking that, it seems like a path of least harm." 

"You will need your own wand, though." 

This troubles the young man, obviously. 

"Or maybe another wand? If you feel so strongly against your current wand, go to Ollivander's." 

"Neville and Luna are running it now. It's still called Ollivander's though." 

"Ah. She was imprisoned with him at the Malfoy's, wasn't she. I presume he has no one else to continue the trade? That's where you fit in. Well done." 

"I wasn't taking an easy option," Potter starts, but then stops to think. More calmly now, he continues, "I've been studying the wand thing for awhile; it just seemed, once the Hallows turned up, that it was going to be relevant." 

Snape sighs. It's getting much harder to get Potter wound up. 

"The Elder Wand. Yes, that nearly lost me my life." 

"Mm. I was there." 

"You?" 

"We had come through the tunnel, Ron, Hermione, and I." 

"I see. That is why I was brought to Madam Pomfrey so quickly." 

"As soon as I could." 

Snape sends him a wry smile, "I understand you were a little busy for awhile. So there is another thing I owe to you." 

"No! I was just happy you were still alive!" 

Snape send him a stern look, "It is still a life-debt." 

"And how many times did you save me, and never claim it?" 

"Perhaps I should." 

Potter sighs, "Do we need to tally all our debts?" 

"So you wish to draw a line?" 

Potter looks directly at him, "Can we just start anew?" 

"Do you believe you can set aside eight years of animosity?" 

"I believe I can. Can you set aside twenty-odd?" 

Snape sees the opportunity, nods. "What now?" 

Potter looks at him, his eyes bright with hope. "Tomorrow's Christmas Eve. Will you help me put some decorations up, please?" 

"I will, if you will bring your wand out and leave it on the side here, if you won't carry it." 

Potter winces, but nods. 

Snape is relieved to see the familiar holly wand, considerably battered and with a dreadful-looking split almost all the way along it. 

"Oh! You thought I'd taken the Elder Wand." 

"I had my suspicions." 

"I got rid of it." 

Snape raises an eyebrow. 

"But, yes, I don't need every hopeful challenging me to a duel. Everyone who was present knows I'm Master of the Elder Wand and that's a lot of people. We set rumours that it had been destroyed in the final battle, but some will always try their luck." 

"Do you have any objections to Yule decorations rather than Christmas?" 

"What, like Hogwarts? I don't think we can fit eight thirty-foot trees in here." 

"Allow me to supply the greenery." 

"Fairies as well?" Potter asks hopefully. 

"Well, candles, at least." 

Potter is standing close to him and he is heartened to see that the young man isn't so very much shorter than himself. He opens his arms in a half-shrug, and Potter accepts the invitation and steps forward. It feels comfortable, he somehow feels as though more time than the less than two years have passed since this young man was sitting at a desk in his classroom. 

But first, "You wished for decorations," he says, stepping back from the embrace. Potter seems disappointed, which suits him very well. "Off you go. No sneaking in until tomorrow morning." 

  
  


Before the evening is over, the Hogwarts house-elves have delivered and installed all that he has asked for, and he retires as well. 

It's quite strange, he muses, it's almost as if he's prepared the room for a family, and now, he waits, a strange anticipation flooding him. 

Potter is moving about, so he goes out to the hall in time to catch the young man as he comes out and steer him by the shoulders into the front room. It has been worth the effort to see Potter's eyes as he spins around to take in all the pine boughs, the lights twinkling amongst the branches, the snow in stasis. 

He is rewarded with an armful of Potter, who spins them around, taking in all the beautiful greenery and lights. 

"Oh!" Potter exclaims. "You've used the tinsel, too!" 

The silver strands are woven into the whole mass of branches, glinting here and there in the twinkling candlelight. 

"When are we expecting the hordes of Weasleys to descend?" 

"I don't know, I haven't invited anyone, have you?" 

"No. I would not presume to invite someone to your house." 

"I guess that means we have this all to ourselves, then." 

Potter pulls him over to the couch saying, "Whatever shall we do with all this time to ourselves?" 

He nearly retorts, "As opposed to every other day?" but stops himself. A relaxed day might be just what they both need.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment here or at [LiveJournal](https://snape-potter.livejournal.com/3847879.html), [Insanejournal](http://asylums.insanejournal.com/snape_potter/1780590.html), or [Dreamwidth](https://snape-potter.dreamwidth.org/1097990.html).


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